


Kneaded

by sasha_dragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:11:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_dragon/pseuds/sasha_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another night in the Bat Cave, and why is Dean being so quiet?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kneaded

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or the Winchesters, for which I’m sure Dean will be forever grateful.  
> Warnings: Spoilers for Season 8, and excessive fluff.  
> Notes: As usual my thanks go to bigj52, my truly wonderful beta. A woman with the patience of a saint, and the Wisdom of Solomon when faced with my scribbles. As for where this story came from? I have absolutely no idea. It just combines my two great loves. The Winchesters, and my ongoing attempts at baking *G*. Oh and I might have pool jacked ficwriter1966 swimming pool, I hope she doesn’t mind too much. As always feedback is cuddled and fed chocolate.

As usual Sam was hunched over a pile of books from the Bunker’s library. His days and most of his nights were filled with research into the Trials, and what the third one could possibly be. He went to take a drink of coffee and grimaced, it was cold; he shuddered and put the cup down.

Sam finally looked up from his work and glanced round the war room, as Dean had christened the large room with the under-lit table. It was then he realized how quiet it was -no off-key humming, or the sound of Dean wandering round the adjoining library. Sam began to worry when his brother was this quiet; it usually meant something was up.

Like the time he’d woken up to see an empty bed by the door, and light coming from under the bathroom door. After a couple of minutes, he’d gotten up to investigate why Dean was taking so long. He prepared himself to be scarred for life as he’d knocked and walked right in, saying, “Dude, seriously, if the chilli was off, you’ve only got yourself to blame for eating it,” only to find Dean sat on the edge of the toilet, carefully stitching a gash across his stomach from the hunt earlier. “Crap, Dean, why didn’t you say you were hurt?” Sam knelt in front of his shivering brother, and gently stilled his trembling hand. He frowned as he counted ten neat stitches, and it looked like there would be a few more needed to close the wound.

“It’s s’alright, Sam. I needed to fix you up first. It’s just a scratch.” Dean’s eyes were glassy, and his skin was bone-white, his freckles standing out.

Sam reached out and felt his forehead. It was cool and clammy to his touch, and Sam was only too familiar with early signs of shock. He squeezed Dean’s cold hand gently, and in one fluid motion that spoke of way too much practice in this kind of move, he’d scooped Dean into his arms, and carried him back into the room. Then he’d put him on the bed, and finished cleaning and caring for the wound. That little moment of quiet had taken fifteen stitches, some fairly major blood loss, and Dean being laid up in bed for two days.

Sam pushed his chair away from the table, and stood. Slowly ignoring the way the room spun, he stretched, and rubbed at tired eyes. He decided to go looking for his errant sibling, as he wandered down a corridor. He recalled another moment of Dean being too quiet. It had only happened in the last few weeks, not long after they’d discovered the Bat Cave and Dean had taken to exploring. It had gotten to the point that Sam had threatened to tie a piece of rope round his waist, so he could find him in the labyrinth of corridors this place had.

Instead of that he made Dean keep his phone with him. And if he lost him he would walk round the bunker, occasionally ringing his brother’s phone, until he heard the loud ‘mullet rock’ ring tone then he followed the sound. He finally found Dean in what could only be described as an Aladdin’s cave by his brother. The room was a cross between an auto shop, and Dumbledore’s study, and there was Dean sat on the floor, picking over something or other that was in pieces. Sam watched Dean’s nimble fingers as he examined the pieces of machinery, piecing together cogs and gears.

“Please tell me that isn’t some form of supernatural Doomsday machine, you’re trying to reassemble.” Sam said, making Dean look up, startled at being disturbed.

Dean grinned up at him, and patted a larger piece of metal with affection. “As if I’d do that, Sam. No, this little baby is gonna be a surprise. I’m gonna get her back up and running pretty soon. This place is awesome; I could even fix the Impala up in here. Well, that is, as soon as I figure out where the vehicle entrance to this place is.” Dean’s eyes had been sparkling with joy, then he’d gone back to tinkering with whatever he’d found in the room.

Sam had left him to it, happy Dean wasn’t about to blow the place up. At least Dean hadn’t found something else to put a whammy on him. Sam promised Dean he’d never mention the whole merman incident ever again. Thank god they’d found out there was a swimming pool in the depths of the bunker.

It was hell trying to cram a six-foot-one older brother, who now had a fish’s tail and gills into a bathtub. Either Dean’s gills weren’t under water, and he lay gasping for breath, or his gills were under water and Dean whacked him round the head with his tail. But after he’d carried Dean’s heavy ass to the pool, he’d left Dean swimming round happily until he figured out how to reverse the spell.

Sam was suddenly assailed with an image of his brother’s feet sticking out from under a mountain of boxes, in one of the many storage rooms. He walked a little quicker along the dimly lit corridors. He wondered if he should head for his brother’s lair first, to see if he was dismembering another piece of ancient machinery, or go and see if he was down on the firing range, engaging in a little target practice.

Then the sound of music floated through the air and Sam changed direction, walking towards Dean’s other sanctuary, the kitchen. Since they had moved into the bunker, the library had been his domain. Dean seemed to be most at home in the kitchen, which never ceased to surprise him. His stomach rumbled, and his mouth watered when he remembered the burger Dean had made before the trials. Now his appetite was diminishing, and he was barely picking at his food. Sam knew Dean was worried about him, and it was hurting Dean to see he was no longer eating the home-cooked meals he was making them.

Sam saw it as part of the price he had to pay for closing the gates of hell. He hoped once he’d completed the third trial, he’d have his appetite back. Actually, he hoped there would be an ‘after’ for him.

Sam stopped worrying about his brother as he turned the corner, and a delicious smell wafted through the air. Sam walked faster, stepped inside the kitchen, and was amazed at what he saw.

The kitchen was like the rest of the bunker - huge, and every single surface gleamed. Like the rest of the bunker, the kitchen had been suspiciously dust free when they arrived. But as Sam looked round, he could see his brother’s own special brand of care in here. The room was spotless and well organized. And speaking of his brother. Dean was stood with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and a look of intense concentration on his face. He was watching something on his lap top, as he stirred the contents of a large glass bowl by hand.

Sam could hear a soft voice coming from the lap top, as it competed with the sound of Dean’s favourite rock music. Dean carried on, unaware he was being watched. He reached with his left hand for a bottle of olive oil, tried to open it one handed and struggled. “Son of a bitch, I should’ve done that before.”

Sam stepped forward, picked up the bottle and opened it. Dean looked at him and smiled. “What you doin’ in here, Sammy? You want a fresh cup of coffee? Hold on until I’ve done this and I’ll get you a cup.” Dean nodded towards a coffee maker.

Sam went over to it. It was sleek and its paint gleamed and the steel shone, and Sam suddenly recognized it. It was the machine he’d found Dean tinkering with in Dumbledore’s study. Dean had repaired the coffee maker. Now it bubbled away merrily. He picked up the pot inhaling the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. “It’s ok. I’ll pour us both a cup.” Sam looked round the kitchen, as he tried to figure out where the cups were, without opening all the cupboards and proving he knew where nothing was.

Dean looked over his shoulder and smiled at Sam’s puzzled expression as he stood holding the pot of coffee in one hand, the other hovering uncertainly on a cupboard door. “Two cupboards over to the left, Sam. Thanks, I need one of those.” Dean went back to what he was doing.

Sam found the cupboard with the cups in, and once again he saw Dean’s organizational skills at work. Everything neatly lined up and in its place. He bet whatever cupboard he opened it would all be neatly laid out. He pulled out two cups and poured them both a coffee. He went to the large fridge and poured milk into his, then took Dean’s to him, black as he preferred.

Dean was just pouring a generous amount of oil onto the stainless steel surface, as Sam watched him. “What are you doing, Dean?”

Dean finally eased the dough he’d been mixing out onto the work surface, and attacked it enthusiastically with both hands. “I’m making bread, Sammy. There’s this guy I’ve found on the net. Some Brit called Paul Hollywood, and he’s a master baker.”

Sam nearly spat his coffee onto the surface, but he managed to control himself. He searched Dean’s face for a trace of a smirk, or quirk of an eyebrow at what he’d just said. But there was nothing, as Dean intently watched the silver-haired man on the screen, as he kneaded the dough on an oil-covered surface, just as Dean was doing.

It was then Sam noticed Dean’s hands were moving in time to the song playing on a classic rock radio station. He recognized it; it was ‘Photograph’ by Def Leppard.

“Best kind of music to work the dough to. Good beat and you can really work some aggression out on this stuff.” Dean proved his point when he stretched the dough, and then slammed it onto the stainless steel, making it ring. “I gotta do this for about ten minutes, until it becomes smooth and silky, according to Paul. So if you want go back to the War Room and as soon as I leave this to prove I’ll be with you.”

Sam shook his head. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll stick around in here for a while. When did you get into baking?” Sam stood beside Dean, watching him work.

Dean shrugged. “Dude, we got a fully stocked kitchen, and then I went on You Tube and found some stuff to watch. Man, some of those chiefs talk crap, but Paul makes a lot of sense. Really knows his stuff, and I know how much you like fresh bread.”

He felt a rush of warmth at Dean’s words; he watched him continue to knead with sure deft movements. His hands moved continuously, working the dough, stretching and folding. Dean hummed along to the radio.

Sam considered his brother as he worked. Dean was a contradiction. A drifter who wanted a home. A brash and bold adventurer to the outside world, but that facade hid a vulnerable big heart. When Dean loved someone it was unconditional; he gave everything and rarely asked for anything in return. He could be the world’s biggest jackass, and then he could turn right around and be totally awesome.

And the hands that now worked the dough so surely, were also a series of contradictions. Sam had seen them covered in blood and guts when Dean killed. He’d seen them covered in blood; when Dean had gently taken care of him: when he was hurt. He’d watched Dean strip and clean their guns, ensuring the tools of their trade were in good working order. Hands that took care of their other home, the Impala, treating her as gently as he treated Sam. Hands that created as well as destroyed, and now they were turned to creating something for him.

Sam looked round the kitchen as Dean carried on kneading, then he spotted something. “Wow, is that stand mixer? God, Amelia wanted one of those so badly, but they cost a fortune. Where did you find that one?” Sam felt a pang of regret when he thought of Amelia, but he focused on what Dean was saying.

“I found it down in the workshop, the motor was burnt out. I got her running again, found a pile of spares and bits of other machines. I just used them to build a new motor.”

Dean shrugged off what he’d done. Sam was impressed though. He’d managed to get two vintage machines working, and then came a long familiar feeling of regret for Dean. He wondered just what Dean could’ve done if life had taken a different turn - mechanic, engineer, baker even. With Dean’s natural skill with his hands, and instinctive intelligence, he could’ve done anything he’d wanted.

Sam’s musings were cut short when Dean spoke. “Hey Sam, would you mind getting something out of the oven for me?”

“Yeah, no problem. You got some bread baking already?” Sam picked up the oven gloves and walked towards the oven.

“No, this is my first batch; I wanted to try out the mixer first. What to do ya think, Sammy? They done?” Dean smiled when Sam opened the oven door.

Sam looked inside the oven and drooled. He pulled out the tray and carried it back to Dean. He looked happily at his brother. “Dude, seriously? These are my favourite.”

“I mean, who likes blueberry and pumpkin seed? My geeky brother, that’s who. What’s wrong with liking chocolate chip like a normal person? Now let them cool, before you start chewing your way through them.” Dean grumbled, but he smiled as Sam looked longingly at the cooling muffins.

Dean was finally happy with the dough; he picked up a clean bowl and poured some more olive oil into it and swirled the thick liquid round. He scooped the dough into the bowl, and then he covered it with a tea towel. “Ok Sam, now we’re going to move onto the most important part of cooking.”

“Tasting the food?” Sam said hopefully.

Dean picked another tea towel, and threw it at Sam, “Nope, washing up. You help me clean up, and then you can have as many of those freaky muffins as you like.”

Sam slung the towel over his shoulder, and helped Dean clean the kitchen. They were standing at the sink, and Dean was washing and he was drying, when Sam decided to ask, “Why Paul Hollywood? There’s hundreds of celebrity chefs out there now. I’d have thought Gordon Ramsey was more your style.”

“Hell, no. With that dude’s attitude, I’d punch him out before he had chance to finish mouthing off.”

“Ok, what about Jamie Oliver?” Sam asked.

“Naw, he’s on a health kick. Who wants low-fat cakes?” Dean handed Sam the glass bowl.

Sam was drying the bowl, and he knew why Dean had settled on the softly spoken Paul Hollywood; he had an air of quiet authority, and a patient way of explaining things. He reminded Sam a little of someone, when he wasn’t in drill sergeant mode. And he understood why that would appeal to his brother.

Dean directed him where to put the freshly washed kitchen utensils. Then he went to stand by the cooling muffins, trying hard not to look like an excited six year old. Dean appeared beside him carrying a tray with two plates, two more coffees, and then he picked up six of the muffins and put them on the plates. Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Come on, Samantha, you’re a growing girl. Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?”

Sam laughed and followed Dean out of the kitchen; he’d never seen Dean so at home anywhere. This place was good for him, and if he was honest, it was good for him too. It was the closest thing the two of them had ever had to a home, next to Bobby’s place. But this place felt like theirs, and with every passing day, Dean was making it more like home.

Dean turned the corner, and there was what he called the drawing room. It must’ve been where the long-departed Men Of Letters went when they were off duty. The room had dark wood panels and leather armchairs, and now it had a new edition. “When did we get a TV?” Sam asked, amazed.

On the wall was a large flat screen TV, with a Blu Ray player on a table underneath it. Sam followed Dean further into the room, and walked to an armchair. He sat down on the worn leather, and Dean put the tray on a table between them. Dean sat down and picked up a still-warm muffin, winking at his brother. “What can I say? Best Buys was having a sale, and I just happened to have a Mr D. Roman gold card on me. I think it’s the least the big-mouthed bastard owed us.”

Sam joined Dean in trying a muffin, as Dean picked up the remote. Damn, they were delicious; it looked like Dean watching those cooking shows was paying off. “So what we watching? Is there a game on, or will be watching Nigella Lawson get all flirty with her buns?”

Dean laughed. “Man, that chick could knead my buns anytime, and that red dress of hers should’ve been made illegal. But I’m always prepared to learn from the best.” Dean nodded at the screen, as he pressed some buttons.

“I bet you’d look so cute wearing an apron. What’s next? A chef’s hat?” Sam laughed and took another bite of muffin.

Dean didn’t care about Sam mocking him as he watched his brother eat. He’d noticed Sam’s appetite fading, and if he was lucky, by the time they were done in here tonight, Sam was going to have eaten most of the muffins, and hopefully some newly baked bread he’d made earlier. Once Sam was engrossed with the TV he’d go and get them more coffee. Then he’d bring the bread back, along with some of that fancy assed cheese Sam loved so much. He would do anything to make sure Sam was eating whatever it took to give him what he needed.

Dean lifted the remote and took aim. “So Sam, how do you feel about a Great British Bake-off marathon on Netflix?”


End file.
